


You bring your mind to rest against mine, but the mind has no say in the affairs of the heart

by corporates



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Also I find moody Tony really cute, Also there's more profanity than normal, An over use maybe, And I'm not sure whether you could say the, And it's mature for the less than subtle sexual references, Angst, As well, B&B is only discussed, Because it's Alastair, But there are some okay parts, Fluff, Gordon Brown - Freeform, I apologise, M/M, Mandelbell, but he's not an actual character that does anything, i guess?, is - Freeform, or - Freeform, take your pick, this is completely pointless, what do you expect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corporates/pseuds/corporates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tony is confused, Peter is depressive, and Alastair is all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

"Alright, be over in forty-two seconds." When I hear the line go dead, I unwind the phone cable from around my arm and click it back in its place. I wonder if Tony has begun a stopwatch; he's probably sitting there watching the door, his finger poised over the "stop" button, ready for when I arrive. I know he's joking when he sets these times for me, but sometimes I think he actually takes note of how punctual I am.

I flop back on the springy hotel bed — only the best for the high-ranks of New Labour — and stretch my feet so they hang off the end. I'm tall, yes, but this is ludicrous. If I have my head on the pillow and stretch as far as possible, half my calf doesn't even have any mattress to support it. Not to mention the lamp that decides when to work, on a timetable that's ever changing, and the shower that I think might have cockroaches living there. But it was dark when I tried to use it so I'm not totally sure whether they were actually there or just the remnants of a fading dream.

I'm curious how Peter's faring. He's always the first to complain when accommodation isn't up to his standards. Which, considering said standards, is basically every time we ever dare drag him out of the comfort of his own home. Gordon refuses to travel with him (which isn't shocking — it's Gordon) because Peter won't shut up about how long the journey is, or how they should learn to use air conditioning, or they should know when to _switch off_ air conditioning, or how babies shouldn't be allowed in public places... I'm sure Peter enjoys it. Which makes it all the more frustrating for Gordon, who if we didn't have a law on separating those two on public transport, they'd most definitely have killed each other by now.

I realise I probably have about twenty seconds left so I roll off the bed into my slippers and hastily button up my shirt, grabbing my edits to the conference speech and darting out the door. It's only halfway down the corridor that I remember I didn't lock it. Tony's probably tapping his foot by now. I make a dash back, secure my room, then trip on the way back down the corridor. I yell profanity as I only just about manage to steady myself against a neighbour's door. Of course the fucker happens to open the door at that point; I stumble into their room, clutching at the doorframe helplessly. The stranger stares at me, I grin sheepishly. "That wasn't a knock, I just fell." I don't give them a chance to reply. Instead, I back out and make my escape down the rest of the hall, praying to a Lord that doesn't exist that I won't make a fool of myself again.

"What on earth took you so long?" The question is demanded as soon as I step into Tony's room.

"I'm sorry I can't live up to your unrealistic expectations, Tony," I retort. "Just be glad you're not me." I shut the door and chuck the sheets on the bed — or, aim to: I miss by a few centimetres. Is this proof that God doesn't exist? "I think... I think I might have had a bit of wine." I don't think Tony would take kindly to that.

"Oh, Ali..." Tony sighs and shakes his head. He's perched on the bed, picking the sheets of paper up. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact I can't remember whether I did or not.

I snicker indignantly. "You can hardly blame me, we're in Bordeaux, the _heart_ of good wine."

"I would have thought you'd have been put off by now..." Tony hits a nerve and I flinch. He notices and frowns, changing the subject. "You know, I didn't really want to work on the speech."

I falter in my steps towards the bed. "What?"

"I just called you and asked you to come over to my room, I never said anything about conference."

The reality of this hits me. I have been so consumed with work that I didn't even realise that friends could do anything _other_ than work together. The assumption was instinctive. "That's how sad I am," I conclude.

Tony laughs. "I'm supposed to be the sad one."

Again, he confuses me. "Excuse--"

"Ali, I need some advice... Y'know, man to man... bro-ship... stuff."

"Please, stop."

Tony grins. "Sorry."

"So it's about girls then?" I launch myself onto the bed, managing not to fuck this action up for the first time tonight. I astonish myself.

"Mm, no." Tony leans against the headboard and pulls his knees up. He refuses to look at me, but I wait for him to continue. "You remember... some months ago. I... ah, I told you something, that you swore to keep private. Do you?"

I pause. No, I don't. But there's so much going on that one small detail lost isn't rare. I keep a diary for the exact reason my memory is so shitty. On second thought, whatever he's trying to remind me of does seem like a big detail; in a rush I get it. "Oh! Gordon?"  
He sniffs, jerks his head. I think that's a nod. He told me indeed some months ago that he had been in a relationship with Gordon. I had protested against the infidelity, but he'd replied cryptically, "If you prick us, do we not bleed?"

It had all broken down when John Smith died, which, ironically, is I think when I began to notice my growing affection for a certain adviser to Tony. Namely, the Dark Lord himself. Looking back on how Gordon and Tony acted around each other before 1994, I can barely believe Peter missed it. Granted, I wasn't around them as much, but the three of them back then had been inseparable. Then shit went down, I came along, and Tony is still hung up about the past.

_Still._

"You know... I miss Gordon's cock in my arse, hands on my hips, kisses on my neck..." Tony laughs shakily and runs a hand through his hair, turning away from me.

Of course he does. I can't deny that envy surged inside of me when I first thought he meant Peter. A kind of protective envy. No, fucking possessive. But even as I lay here next to Tony, years after he and Gordon "broke up", it comes as no surprise that he still lusts after the Scot. I see the way he stares at him — or the way they stare at each other. It makes me wonder why he doesn't just fucking go for it.

"Fucking go for it," I say. He shakes his head — but he's pensive.

"Why." It's more of a statement than a question, like he is sick of asking that to himself. "Why should I? I know he hates me, you know he hates me." Now it's more open.

"Because Gordon's odd." He sniggers. I can't find the words. "Maybe he... It might... Well... it might take an outsider's view to say this..." It's not like the defence of Tony, of Gordon, of anyone inside New Labour — and indeed of Peter — that rolls off my tongue whenever an interviewer _looks_ the wrong way at them; it's soul-baring, it's the politics of emotion. We don't practise for this. "...You can't honestly believe the front he puts up on despising you runs blood deep, can you? Come on, Tony, you're smarter than this." Tony shakes his head again — I'm not sure what to. "It's Gordon. You've known him longer than I have." He's worryingly silent, seemingly not taking the hint. "He cares more about you than he cares to admit. That's why he's so conflicted." He's still not understanding, I don't think. He daren't glance at me. "I see it all like a view from a movie scene. You look at him — so mournfully, you pathetic fucker — but what you don't notice is that he looks at you, too. Or rather you don't realise those glances have the same significance. Stop being so bloody dismal." At that he laughs, finally.

"That's an admission."

"You're the one that should be making a fucking admission. And not to me," I add, just in case he thinks whining about his fantasies about Gordon to me will somehow summon the Chancellor's grand confession of his undying love. If either of them are going to do it, it's not going to be Gordon. Whether it'll be Tony is all down to himself, yes, but it's certain that it won't be Gordon — under any circumstances, if I know him at all. Tony knows this too; if I can gather it after only a few years, there's no doubt he can after over fifteen.

"Mm." I'm not sure if I've convinced him. He's a different matter to the press; the press is predictable and willing to take whatever'll give their story kick. Inter-party feuds are so much more dangerous than whatever storm the media can whip up.

He rolls over. Stays there a bit, his legs hugged to his chest, then pulls the bed covers over himself. I suppose that's my cue to leave. I have served whatever purpose I could here, or whatever purpose he thought I could. It turns out I made a speech — just not for conference.

"Good luck," I wish him, getting up and head for the door.

Bitterness is evident in his reply. "Any is appreciated." Somehow whatever ten minutes I just spent with him feels more intimate than when I'd regularly come across him stark naked. That doesn't happen anymore.

I pause before the exit, watching his unmoving lump. Distress teems in the air; it's suddenly unbearably hot. I leave the door open when I go.


	2. Part II

It's only when I'm settling into my own bed that I realise I may just as well have advised myself on what to do about Peter. We might not have the same everlasting discord, and neither do we share any visceral connection, stamped down by fatigue and bitterness. But the point is I care for him and I don't think he knows that. I have to be completely objective and that doesn't suit with him; he takes any strategic disagreement so personally.

Not that I can really blame him, that is. Because the media is always up in his face, unfairly, about his private life, it's almost automatic to him to assume any perceived attack is individual. It borders on paranoia. Plus, Tony's clear favouritism of me is a blow to his already meagre self-esteem.

I sigh quietly and close my eyes. It's almost shameful to admit that Peter's insecurity only makes me want to hug him, want to protect him from the severity of this dog-eat-dog world.

Silence, however, is my prevailing desire right now. A wild guess is it's past midnight. Tony's relationship drama be damned, I'm not going to make a bad year of sleepless nights. I stretch out, breathe, relax, and it works. I feel myself falling into the abyss of much-needed sleep, something seldom achieved so quickly these days.

That is, until a familiar voice shocks me awake.

"Ali."

It was only a whisper, I realise; do things always sound louder when you're used to the silence?

"Ali." It persists. I don't.

"Mmph." I raise my arm, slap the lamp, miss the switch. "Fuck." Try again and it happens; in a rush I wish it hadn't. My dilated pupils are shocked and I squint to make out who would dare disturb me. I expect it to be Tony, wanting more poorly-calculated advice. Not Peter, standing there in a dressing gown in all his lanky glory with his dark hair fluffed up and glasses crooked. Why is he wearing his glasses?

I half-expect him to come out with something like, "I had a bad dream."

Still, I'm surprised when that is essentially what he does.

"I can't sleep," he says quietly. I can plainly see the distress he is displaying; his posture is slumped, his eyes and eyebrows directed to the floor, his jutting bottom jaw even more prominent. He knows exactly how to make a person feel sorry for him. It's infuriating.

"And you expect me to be the shoulder to cry on?" He sniffs. I realise he does. It's obviously something more disturbing than just a bout of sleeplessness. That, or I dread to think about the alternative: that perhaps he's only looking for an excuse to see me. At this fucking time? I'd rather not consider that, since drowsiness tends to cloud rational judgement. Nevertheless, squinting at the show in front of me, there can hardly be another reason. The selfish bastard.

Ostensibly, I'm doomed to be spending a night with various pathetic fuckers. Such is life at the heart of New Labour.

Peter continues staring at me. He seems to be taking lessons in the art of puppy-dog eyes. I try to convince myself the only reason I eventually give in to that dark gaze is because I want him to go away as quickly as possible (it's called tactical play). But really, as I let out an exaggerated sigh, and I shuffle over on the bed to make room for him, and his face lights up in an instant — really, I know that's only kidding myself.

"So here's my shoulder. Cry on it." This comes out rather more gruffly than I'd intended. Peter, shockingly, doesn't seem phased by these words at all and does exactly what I tell him. Shockingly.

"Hold the fuck up, I didn't mean that literally--" I try to protest as he collapses onto the bed, ignoring any law of "this is my side; that is your side" and settling his chin on my shoulder. The heat of his body against mine, his soft breath on my neck: it sends a shiver down my spine and I want to move away, but I know if I did that, he would obey that second command from earlier. It surprises me that he isn't crying already; his eyes are dry yet red. He just looks awfully miserable.

Since he clearly has no intent to explain why he's in my room in the early hours of the morning, I attempt to drag the truth out of him. I don't think at this time he'd appreciate any ciphered spin, and being direct happens to be a specialty of mine. It's what makes me so indispensable as an adviser, I'm told. Whether that rings true emotionally along with politically... well, I'd prefer not to pry. "So why are you really here?"

It's that easy. "They're at it again," Peter sniffles and I see now he has let the tears flow. No defence, no resistance: it's almost scary.

"Who? The media?"

He nods against my shoulder. It's a peculiar feeling. "Why won't they just... leave me alone?" I can scarcely describe this piteous noise as anything but a plea. It's even more feeble than Tony earlier, and on an impulse, I raise my hand to almost pet Peter's hair. It's softer to the touch than I'd expected; he seems to use so much damn hair gel that I thought it would be like petting a pile of straw. He doesn't object.

Peter makes the snorting, asphyxiated sound of someone holding back a sob, but he doesn't hold out for long and soon he has buried his face into my neck and there's a damp patch on my formerly clean, white tshirt.

I clutch at his hair, rage firing up inside me. "Because they're fucking pricks who create a career out of digging up dirt on people who are only being fucking human," I snarl. Forget that desire to wrap Peter in a blanket; I want to smash the heads in of the twats that dare reduce the Prince Of Darkness to a snivelling wreck. Maybe it'll knock their brains into shape.

My explosion does nothing to mellow his grief, though. Instead, I tense up when Peter nuzzles into my neck and suddenly it's my skin that's the tissue for his tears and my torso that he's clinging onto, not the bed covers.

However, my features soften as I stare at the man curled around me. He has given up with the tears; now occasionally only defeated hiccoughs shake his frame. I suppose in the early years, when it was just the three of them — Blair, Brown, and Mandelson — there was no constant scrutiny of every action they ever dare take, or every type of human they ever dare be. Me, I've been in the media, I know how it works and I was prepared for how bad it would be once we were on the front lines. Peter... We warned him of the dangers — it's basically protocol. But he laughed it off, said with a sweep of his suit and a snaking smile, "Truly, I appreciate your concern. It's almost heartwarming. But I'll be damned, darling, if they ever come close to breaking me."

I know now he was right.

He is damned.

It's 1am and he's clinging onto me as if I'm the only thing left in the world. Maybe, to him, I am. Maybe in this moment, it is to him: "Fuck Tony, fuck New Labour, I _can't do this_. They're parasites, Ali, parasites for human nature." But instead of the truth, instead of an admission reminiscent of Tony's, I get suffocated sobs and half-arsed attempts at longing; affection that isn't really there, affection that's in passing... affection as temporary as the promises flung around in Tony's speeches. And like Gordon might say, as fluctuating as the value of the British pound.

But I hold this moment as it comes. His fingers curving around my chest and mine in his hair, his mouth on my neck and mine agape at the ceiling. He's drowning next to me but I can breathe just fine. My author instincts might marvel at the irony.

However, Peter is my friend, not my writing tool, and I can't bear the sight of him so worthlessly wretched. I can't, even through all of my own setbacks and mishaps with the press and fellow politicians alike, I can't imagine what he is suffering. He's shaking against me. Whatever attacks I have experienced in the past have been based on what I have done, not who I am. You could say I deserved them. But Peter does not, and nothing can ever justify making personal attacks on people, mortal enemy or not. Nothing can ever justify dehumanising someone so much that they stumble into your room at some absurd hour and break down before you.

By some means, my fury has left me, though. It is replaced by a grim exhaustion and a craving I'd all but forgotten. It seems Peter's laboured breathing has slowed, as well. If I didn't know him better, I'd presume that he was asleep. But even with whatever empty comfort my presence might offer, I know he won't be sleeping for a long time.

He won't want to speak to me. Hell, he probably won't mention it in the morning, either, despite the fact we'd be found in bed together. It's a wordless agreement, perhaps even a promise. We share these thoughtless moments of passion, but never speak of them. In his mind, it renders them nonexistent, but in mine, they fester, foreboding and forbidden. I guess that's always been the way with me.

And, naturally, I hold this moment until it goes.


End file.
